Innocence Lost
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: Mana had been the first to go, his arm the second. After that, his hopes, then his dreams, and then finally most of what still remained of his ability to give a damn. Back in the day, Allen used to look for solutions. Now, he's merely looking for an escape.
_**Mana had been the first to go, his arm the second. After that, his remaining hopes, then most of what still remained of his ability to give a damn.**_

 _I found this one shot lying around, collecting dust on my hard drive. After reading the latest chapters of DGM, I figured I might as well throw it out here and see what happens…_

-.-.-.-

Back in the day, Allen used to wonder how he got himself into these types of situations. He used to look for solutions too, up until just recently.

These days though, having come to terms with the relative direness of his situation, Allen had resolved not to renew his subscription of fucks to give.

In hindsight, Allen wonders whether or not Cross might actually have been onto something, considering the man's habit of drinking and living in excess. Probably, Allen thinks and downs his third cocktail for the night.

In this place, at the pre-party before the likely apocalypse, no one really cares about underage drinking, Allen least of them all. Rather, of all the things he's been up to as of late, the offence is probably the least serious out of the bunch. Perhaps he ought to pick up smoking as well, in order to calm his frayed nerves if nothing else, now that his gilded prison has been switched for parole.

"That's quite enough for you. Give me that."

Allen looks from his half empty glass of mixed vodka to Tyki Mikk's extended hand to the man himself. "I'll trade it for your smokes. Totes."

Tyki Mikk looks exasperated but at the same time resigned.

At the end of it, Allen emerges triumphantly from both the exchange and the party. Walking out onto the large balcony with his latest catch, he lights his first cigarette. Taking his first whiffs, he tries very hard to pretend not to notice the people advancing through the bushes.

Before, there was a time when he looked for solutions. These day however‒

"You know, if you were going for an ambush, this is a very bad route."

He is looking for entertainment.

-.-.-.-

There are things that cannot be regained once lost. Similarly, there are people and things that simply refuse to get lost. Fifteen-year-old Allen Walker had been one of them, even if he had gotten himself lost more than a dozen times. He had always managed to find his way however, sharp intuition acting as a counterweight to his lousy sense of direction. And when all else had failed, there had been asking for directions. Obviously.

Getting lost had been a part of life, so Allen hadn't actually seen the need to fret, not even when he had found himself standing on an unfamiliar platform on an equally unfamiliar train station with little more than the clothes on his back and a golem in his pocket. Instead, he had taken a calming breath, straightened his clothes and left the station, uncaring of the looks that had followed him on the way out.

Even back then, Allen had been highly used to getting looks; it came with the territory when one had stark white hair, a scarred face and only one arm to the boot. He had been quite used to getting questions as well. Even Narain had asked at one point, although he had asked more about how Allen dealt with the handicap rather than how he had lost the arm in the first place.

For that, Allen had been thankful. For once, he had also opted to be perfectly honest about the issue. "It was pretty useless to begin with. Wouldn't move the way I wanted it to. Deformed. I mean, it's definitely difficult to cheat in poker with only one hand, but other than that‒"

Of course, over time, he had managed to work his way around the handicap using not only dexterity but also magic, whipping up a discreet illusion every now and then so that things would go his way.

Attracting the ire of fellow players had been a minor and necessary hazard, and aside from thievery, it had paid off more than honest manual labour. Besides, it had counted as training; him sharpening his skills as a magician was hardly a bad thing, and Cross Marian of all people had hardly objected to it. Cheating was a means to an end after all, and in Cross' world, the ends had always justified the means.

Granted, going by the somewhat funny look sent Allen's way, Narain had not quite understood. Then again, Narain had certainly had other things to deal with; the whims of his employer Lady Urmina, his studies and Mina, his bedridden sister, had obviously taken priority. Obviously.

Reminded of what had then been relatively recent events, Allen had heaved a heavy sigh, looking up at the cloudy skies. Narain had been an idiot after all, but in the end, he was far from the only one.

The three-month stay at Lady Urmina's residence in Agra had initially felt like a damn vacation after Cross had dragged him all over the place, telling him to capture lions and whatnot whenever he wasn't supposed to support Cross' decadent lifestyle.

The widowed Lady Urmina had had more than enough money and had proven perfectly willing to spend it on her lover. She had been just one out of many though; Allen had occasionally wondered if the women had been even remotely aware of each other and if so, if they had cared. Then again, it was obvious that there had been something that made Cross immensely popular with women; a certain charm in addition to few qualms about using it in order to attain his goals.

Allen had despised it. At the same time though, he had coveted it, because in the end, it was a weapon just like any other. Of course, that was not to say that Allen himself hadn't been able to utilise a similar type of charm. Otherwise, making it out alive would have been decidedly difficult, especially when coming face to face with some of the more volatile debt collectors and their henchmen. With just the right words and the right amount of charm and charisma, Allen had reduced one of them to a heap of rapidly blinking confusion and another to a furiously blushing but nevertheless helpful escort.

Surprisingly, Cross had not been entirely pleased when he had found Allen in the early stages of forming his very own mob, dragging him off to their next destination months ahead of schedule. Allen could see his reasoning though, especially in hindsight, even if he didn't necessarily approve.

Alone, Allen had been easier to control, but with a bunch of brutes swarming around him, things had been bound to get messy and a mess had been bound to attract unwanted attention from people Cross had avoided far more diligently than his debt collectors.

The people over in Agra, well in India in general, had not been as susceptible to Allen's charms as the people back in Ireland. Then again, Allen hadn't exactly tried very often or very hard, and with Lady Urmina throwing all that money around, he had hardly needed it either.

Really though, though Cross had been an arse, as a human and as a teacher, he had really known his stuff. Admittedly, he hadn't normally been very keen on sharing his expertise, but that was not to say that Allen's time with Cross hadn't been thoroughly educational. It had, it definitely had, and in the years that had gone by since Cross had found him out in that graveyard, Allen had become quite the expert in figuring things out for himself through means of observation in combination with learning by doing.

Of course, there had been more than a few screw-ups along the way, but they had usually resulted in Cross being forced to teach him properly, which was usually what Allen had originally intended.

Then there had been that particular incident, and then Cross needing him to head to Europe. Granted, it had mostly just been an excuse to keep him from becoming any more emotionally invested in the train wreck that was, or rather had been, Narain's family life.

It hadn't been as though Allen hadn't understood Narain's despair; Allen himself had after all had a similar experience and had acted upon it, much like Narain had. The only difference was really that Allen had succeeded, whereas Narain had not.

" _Is it always like that?"_ Narain had asked, curled up beneath the sheets in the room he had not left for days, neither eating nor sleeping any significant amount. He had been getting water though, and perhaps even a bit of juice; Allen had tirelessly been making sure of that. _"The souls…"_

Getting stabbed through the eye had proven a fairly agonising experience, though it had been decidedly difficult to tell which was more painful: the stabbing or the rapid regeneration.

In a way though, Allen supposed that it had been for the best; the curse had grown stronger, yes, but after catching a glimpse of what akuma looked like through Allen's eyes, Narain had been unlikely to make another attempt. Though it may have resulted in the loss of sleep and appetite, Allen had deemed it necessary, given that he had no desire to ever encounter an akuma wearing his best friend's skin.

Admittedly, Narain had lost some sleep over what he'd seen and been unable to stomach food for a couple of days, but at least now Allen could be fairly certain that he would never encounter an akuma wearing his best friend's skin. That had been about the only thing though; the suicide option had still been open and Allen would have been far too physically removed to do anything about it if push came to shove.

Narain was only a human after all. As for Allen himself, his rapid healing rate and other peculiarities had left him in doubt. _"I suppose I really am a freak then."_ He had uttered something to that effect within earshot and Narain had positively freaked. Allen could hardly blame him though, all things considered.

Oh well, that idiot was probably doing well… enough. Besides, Allen was hardly in any position to worry about others, was he?

-.-.-.-

There are days when he remembers things more vividly, nights when he effectively relives things as they were rather than the versions where the actual events are warped to the extent that they are barely recognisable.

Even now, he remembers that night vividly, reliving it. He doesn't mind it very much however, because those memories are among his happier ones.

Above him is a castle, its dark spires forming a dark silhouette against the darkening horizon. Behind him are people, voices; a whole crowd of pitchfork-toting villagers.

Less than twenty-four hours, he has attained a travelling companion that isn't pocket sized at will and that gets into all kinds of trouble when you take your eyes off them.

-.-.-.-

"Really," Allen asks himself, because he'd been gone for like five minutes. "What's up with this situation?"

Arystar Krory III, his newly acquired responsibility, shoots him a pleading look. The poor man had been stripped to his undergarments; Allen could really have gone by without seeing that or the entirely too gleeful poker players that had reduced the man to such. Really.

"Want to try your luck, Boy?" the apparent ringleader asks, and Allen bares his teeth in what could generously have been called a smile.

Winning back Krory's belongings had been easy enough, and since there are still hours before their stop, Allen sees no good reason not to continue his winning streak. As a result, he finds himself playing against a number of increasingly bare opponents.

"Say, Boy," the ringleader says, his smile looking decidedly strained as he shuffles the deck. "How about a little gamble?"

"Gamble?" Allen humours him, not taking his eyes off the cards, knowing just how little it takes to get screwed over since he is usually the one screwing people over in the first place.

"All or nothing," the man, Tyki Mikk, suggests. "Whoever wins the next round gets‒"

Allen interrupts him. "I'm not interested in your junk."

"Then‒"

" _This‒"_

Allen catches a glimpse of movement and a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and that definitely draws his attention, especially since Tyki stops shuffling.

"Eez, it's your treasure," the man argues, insisting that he'd put it away.

On one hand, Allen has qualms about taking things from destitute children. On the other though‒

His hand is out before he has even finished the thought, and accompanying it is a harmless-looking smile that would make a certain percentage out of the global population extremely prone to do his bidding.

Tyki moves, but Allen is quicker, curling his fingers around the small object now in his palm.

There is definite tension in the air, and the source is obvious. Krory obviously senses it too, going by the uncomfortable shift. Allen, now inspecting the item, considers his options. "Good quality," he decides at last, handing it back. "Good quality, but I've got standards; stealing from children is below them."

"Hoh?" Tyki hums, having finished shuffling by the time Allen looks back at him. "Standards, huh?"

Allen chooses not to comment on that, much like he chooses not to ask who they have had to kill in order to get their hands on such a thing. It had been perfectly obvious after all; the name had been engraved on the back of it. It was the button from an exorcist general's coat, hence the gold, and the name‒

The name should mean nothing to him. It shouldn't make him sick, but it still does, just a little.

-.-.-.-

How they all end up together at a local tavern is anyone's guess, but the money used had obviously been part of Krory's inheritance. Beyond that though, Allen feels decidedly lost when he wakes up in the morning to a warm body against his back, likely attached to the arm wrapped possessively around his middle. The confusion hardly ends there though.

Turning his aching head, Allen ascertains the identity of the one cuddling him. It is safe to say that he doesn't expect Tyki Mikk, because last thing Allen remembers, they were not in that kind of a relationship. On the other hand‒

There is a foul taste in his mouth and his head aches; going by that, is it possible he had‒ "Krory?"

Someone shuffles closer. Allen opens his eyes back up, taking the time to study the look on Krory's face; he looks quite traumatised, to be completely honest.

"For the record: No alcohol," Allen instructs, keeping his voice perfectly level. "Of any sort. I do exceptionally stupid things while under the influence."

Exceptionally stupid things, like sleeping with the enemy. At least he didn't seem to have stripped or anything, so his virtue is probably still intact. Probably. His dignity on the other hand, well‒ Neither particularly matter though; not much at any rate.

"Really," he asks himself, working on dislodging the arm from around his waist. "What's up with this kind of situation?"

-.-.-.-

Timcanpy is more than just slightly irritated when Allen finally lets him out, conveying his sentiments through attaching himself firmly to Allen's hand with his teeth.

"Allen, blood," Krory mumbles, evidently nervous.

"It's no trouble." Allen waves dismissively. "I heal quickly."

The answer apparently doesn't sit all too well with Krory, given that he shows rare initiative by tearing off part of his sleeve, wrapping it around the wound. Allen lets him, thanking him even. Krory still isn't too happy about it though, mumbling something about possible infection and whatnot.

"No worries," Allen assures him, smiling quite viciously. "I'm hardly fragile."

Going by the look sent his way, Krory doesn't believe him.

-.-.-.-

Allen had, rather graciously, offered to drop Krory off at the Order; in the general vicinity of one of their facilities, at any rate. For whichever reason, Krory hadn't proved all too keen on the idea though. He did have a few quite sensible arguments though, as well as a few less sensible ones.

Allen was, in effect, an akuma sensor and also Krory's mentor. In effect, Allen also lacked the Innocence necessary in order to destroy akuma. Ergo, Krory would obviously have to stay around in order to protect and defend him. And keep him well away from anything vaguely alcoholic, obviously.

On one hand, it had been decidedly annoying and more than a little awkward since Allen had been pretty used to being on his own with Timcanpy. Heck, even spending time with Cross would have been easier, because Cross didn't fuss; he _probably_ cared to some extent, because without Allen, realising his plans would have proven decidedly difficult. Krory however, well‒

The first time it had happened, Allen had been much too stunned to do more than squawk indignantly as Krory had snatched him up, effectively manhandling him. Heck, sometimes it was like he actually believed Allen needed the protection, when in fact, Allen was usually perfectly capable of protecting both himself and Krory, having magic after all.

In time, they had developed a quite efficient teamwork. In the end, it had done them little to no good though.

"Hoh? Leaving already, Cheating Boy A?"

In the end, there had been Tyki Mikk, now clean, sharply dressed and quite deadly.

In the end, there had been Krory and so, so, so much blood.

In the end, there had been Allen, so, so, _so_ sick of being left behind.

-.-.-.-

Innocence ties into emotions; it grows stronger with determination. Long dormant, it stirs when Allen staggers to his feet, entirely too aware of the wet sound of lungs filling with blood.

"Allen Walker, I presume?"

His name is on the Earl's hit list; the reasons for this are only partially known to him. They don't matter though, because for now, for now there's only‒ _"I'll kill you."_

His heart is a sword, an inverted version of the one belonging to his ultimate foe. There is supposedly some poetry in this, along with how in the end it does not kill Tyki Mikk as much as it makes the man stronger. No, it does kill him in a sense, forcefully awakening the previously only partially awakened.

The scattered Innocence forms a mist around them, weak but apparently still alive. Allen is also alive, which is surprising, considering the hole in his heart.

Allen wonders why he's still alive. More than that though, he wonders if Krory's still alive; he hopes so, but the other had already been lost to the mist, and Allen's in pain and so, so tired.

-.-.-.-

He wakes up in Edo, wrapped in bandages and seals. As a prisoner of war, he can do little apart from biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to either escape or to conduct some serious sabotage.

"You are the Fourteenth," they tell him, like it's supposed to mean something.

It does, in a sense. In another, it does not. "The Fourteenth is dead. You killed him."

The Earl sits silently on the side of the bed, stroking his feverish brow.

His enduring and rising fever is a result of battling inner forces; of Noah genes fighting invasive Innocence particles. It breaks only after they've reached some sort of equilibrium, leaving him stranded on top of a figurative knife edge.

It is only temporary however; the shadow of the Fourteenth is looming above him, as well as lurking within him.

-.-.-.-

Krory lives, his Innocence intact. He makes it all the way Edo with Timcanpy, but no further. He and the exorcist team try their best against the akuma, the Noah and the Millennium Earl. They live only because Allen says so, because he trades his regained Innocence for their lives.

-.-.-.-

A fisherman later on finds a body out at sea. It is not the first body the fisherman has found. Unlike the case with the others though, he makes no mention of it once he reaches land; the man is clearly a foreigner. The value of the gold and silver salvaged from the coat is larger than the amount the fisherman usually makes, yearly, so he keeps quiet about the issue and puts the money to good use.

Around the same time, the wife of another fisherman discovers something rather peculiar in a tuna she is preparing for dinner. Her husband eventually brings the gun into town, looking to trade it. After that, it's only a question of time before the Order catches wind of it.

Miles away, defences are strengthened. Even more miles away, a boy slouches. He overlooks the enclosed garden with its pond and well-kept vegetation. His attention lingers briefly on the pond as the surface breaks with the jumping of a well-fed carp, its scales glistening in the dusk.

The garden and the rooms immediately adjacent to it make up his private prison cell; a gilded cage into which few are ever permitted and that he is only seldom allowed to leave.

It has been days, perhaps even weeks, but he keeps waiting even so; he doesn't know for what though. Then Cross is there but instead of finding some comfort in the fact, Allen recoils. The façade drops, morphing into an unfamiliar yet at the same time dread-inducing visage.

It isn't really a fight. Even with surfacing powers as a partially awakened member of the Noah family, he can hardly hold his ground there in the cage that had come to serve its purpose of containing him far better than its purpose of protecting him.

In the end though, there are other things capable of that.

"Are you alright down there, Boy?"

Allen is hurting, but at least he isn't dead or worse. "Really," he mumbles, cradling his aching head. "I need a bloody drink."

-.-.-.-

It is the end of the world already. A drink or two would hardly make the situation any worse; it would hardly improve it either, but that isn't the point now, is it?

Allen drinks to forget, to take the edge off of pain and memories. Granted, it gives him a headache, and his liver probably disapproves. It hardly matters though; his time is limited, and if he cannot prevent his own erasure, then he can at the very least extract a petty revenge upon his inner foe. Of course, calling them his foe is a bit misleading, because even though he doesn't like the situation, he can sympathise somewhat. On the other hand though‒

-.-.-.-

Tobacco tastes awful. Whether or not the brand is expensive, it's still the same. Gross.

"You know," he utters quietly to the one dwelling within. "Now would be a really good time to take over."

As ever, the Fourteenth whispers to him. Had Allen still had two hands, then he would have reached up to cover his ears in spite of the futility of the action. "Hurry up," Allen tells him, because Allen has already served his purpose. He is just the Fourteenth's substitute, the placeholder that had already outlived its use. "Hurry."

Everyone is waiting for him, the Fourteenth.

The ones waiting for him, Allen, are no longer in this world.

-.-.-.-

"Don't stop. Keep walking. Keep going."

Mana's words, repeated like a mantra, repeated to _ad nauseam_.

There are days when Allen still believes in them, but there are also days when he does not.

He empties his glass and does not pour himself another. Instead, he goes to bed. He goes to bed and dreams. He dreams of a grand old mansion amongst the wheat fields; it feels like home.

"Don't stop," Mana gently reminds him, leading him away from the old bony tree amongst the sea of wheat and towards the old mansion. "Keep walking. Keep going."

Allen walks. He doesn't look back.

-.-.-.-


End file.
